


Battle of the Bands

by orphan_account



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), All Time Low, Black Veil Brides, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Pierce the Veil, Sleeping With Sirens, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: M/M, Pitch Perfect AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:44:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard Way just wants to get through college so he can start his comic book career. Somehow, he gets sucked into the weird and wonderful world of Battle of the Bands by one, Vic Fuentes. Faced with control-freak seniors, gorgeous arch-nemesis, and lots and lots of music, Gerard just has to survive until the end of the competition, but that seems like an impossible goal.<br/>(Pitch Perfect AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Bloody Mess

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. I went there. Pitch Perfect...but with band members.
> 
> IMPORTANT!!! For the sake of the story, lets pretend that all the bands (My Chem, PTV, FOB, etc) still exist, just with, you know, other people in them, so I can be lazy and still use their songs.

**Battle of the Bands, 2014  
University Suburbia**

Vic squeaks as he rockets down the hallway, ratty Converse slipping on the linoleum floors as he makes his mad dash towards the auditorium. “Shit, shit, shit,” he chants, skidding around the corner and in through the back entrance, straightening his tie as he goes. There are people everywhere; a conglomeration of the University Suburbia teams, plus people from the other three colleges in attendance. Suddenly, he spots the familiar green hair chalk of his best friend and stealths his way over to Kellin.

“Vic, there you are!” Kellin breathes a sigh of relief, grabbing Vic’s arm in his clawy little hands and dragging him over to the rest of the group.

As soon as Billie spots them, he heaves a disgusted breath, and eyes the two juniors up and down like they’re particularly nasty insects who dared get stuck to the sole of his shoes. “Vic, I can’t manage you; you’re a mess!” he groans, grabbing onto Vic’s tie and re—tying the knot completely. “You’re always late, you dress like a forty year old baby, and you smell like chili, like, all the time.” Billie shoves Vic away with a little push, and rakes his eyes over Kellin, not even sparing him a comment. “I can’t believe the Sellouts are going to be passed over to you two fuckwads after we graduate,” he mutters dusting his vest off. “Whatever, just don’t fuck up your solos.”

“I won’t disappoint you!” Kellin blurts, standing up a little straighter. “My dad always says, ‘Veni, vidi, spurius brutus deitrum covi’!”

Vic pokes him discretely. “That’s a Vicar of Dibley quote!” he hisses quietly.

Billie eyes Kellin a little warily. “Has your dad ever told you to go fuck yourself?”

A tech sidles up to them, interrupting the awkward tension. “Five minutes, Suburban Sellouts,” he announces before vanishing again.

Billie gives the two juniors one last poisonous look before turning around and stalking towards the stage.

Standing in the wings, they can hear the Pick Flickers thrashing their guitars and screaming like there’s no tomorrow. The PA above them is transmitting the two commentators; both a blessing and a curse.

“Now this is exactly the type of performance I’d expect to see at a college level Battle of the Bands,” Gabe Saporta’s voice rings out backstage. “Cliched and rife with second hand embarrassment, but still oddly enthralling, am I right Vicky, or am I right?”

Victoria Asher’s voice joins him. “Gabe, you’re so right everything else seems wrong!”

Vic pushes up onto his toes to see over the other Sellouts' heads as the Flickers finish off their set, Ashley's shirt having somehow disappeared as he grinds his hips all up in his bass' business. One of the tall, tattooed people who make up the Pick Flickers lets out one final death screech, and then the crowd drowns them out with clapping and cheering.

"Another sexy - uh, sensational - performance from host school, University Suburbia's Pick Flickers!" Victoria says breathily into her microphone. "Boy, there's nothing that gets a woman hotter under the collar than a boy who screams like he's having an orgasm."

As the Flickers stay onstage to receive their scores from the judges, Billie turns to face the rest of the Sellouts, already clapping rhythmically. "Alright, Sellouts, this one's on me."

The others join in the clap, forming a small circle. "Hey, Billie," they chant.

"Yeah?"

"The devil."

They start getting strange looks from the other teams milling around as Billie nods, responding with a high-pitched, "Ooh!" before joining them with, "The devil is everywhere," and moving on to Vic, who's standing next to him. "Hey, Vic..."

By the time they've gone around all seven people in the circle, finishing their chant with the, "Sub! Ur! Ban!" and the war-cry like, "Sellooooouts!" the Flickers are tumbling off the stage in a euphoric pile of limbs and butt-touching.

As they pass the Sellouts, Ashley slides off Andy's back and struts over, bare chest glinting in the lights filtering in side-stage. "Good luck out there," he sneers as the MC announces, 'The Suburban Sellouts!' over the loud speaker. Ashley holds his hands up. "Seriously though, you vocal harpies are awesome….ly horrible, you're boring, play some new jams! Flickers out!" and then he jumps back up on Andy's back and the Sellouts glare the Flickers off on their way up onto the stage.

Up in the commentators booth, Gabe says, "Up now, the Suburban Sellouts, again of University Suburbia, who have just qualified for the Battle of the Bands semi-finals for the first time in over twenty years!"

Victoria asks, "Gabe, why do you think it's taken this undeniable vocally-talented group so long to get back on their feet, and worm their way back up the BoB ranks?"

As the Sellouts take their positions on stage, Gabe leans in slightly for a better look. "Well Vicky, the group have made their mark as the only vocals-only band in the Battle of the Bands tournament, often leaving their performances as one-dimensional snore-fests, lacking that deep quality of the live instruments. Let's face it, all-vocal bands are about as successful as the female condom."

There's a hush in the audience as the backing music flows through the PA, the click-track pulsing through the room. Billie taps his foot in time, counting them in with a strict, "One, two, three, four," as the recorded guitar swells for the intro. Just before the lights change, Vic grabs Kellin's hand and squeezes reassuringly, hoping to ease his friend's nerves.

Billie starts off the song, confidently moving around the stage as the other six Sellouts provide backing vocals for him. They make it through the first verse, and then it's Vic's turn to take the microphone for the chorus. Kellin nearly chokes as Vic pulls it off flawlessly, like Kellin knew he would. Vic starts towards him, ready for the next mic exchange. Kellin takes it with shaking hands and prays that he doesn't do something embarrassing like a voice-squeak in the middle of a word, or - no, he's not thinking about his little problem.

Taking a deep breath, Kellin starts to sing. "Been black and blue before; there's no need to explain. I am not the jaded kind…" mentally, he lets himself relax. So far so good. "Payback's such a-" The back of his nose tickles slightly, and then there's blood everywhere.

There are shocked screams from some members of the audience, and Kellin whimpers as he tries to staunch the blood-flow from his nose.

"Nooo!" Gabe crows up in the booth, clutching his stomach and laughing.

Victoria wipes her eyes comically. "This is how you bring excitement to an otherwise boring performance!"

As Kellin wipes frantically at his chin, watching the blood drip onto the stage, Gabe says, "What a hot mess this has created - the group's in a panic!"

"A bloody hot mess!" Victoria adds.

On stage, Kellin's eyes start to well up. He's fucked it.


	2. At Least It's Not A Capella

**One Year Later  
University Suburbia**

Gerard trips a little on the curb as he climbs out of the taxi and walks around to get his stuff out of the trunk. It's lucky the driver isn't polite enough to get out and help him, because he's only got an over-stuffed duffle, and a ratty messenger bag. As he's slinging both bags on his shoulders, a car pulls up with the windows rolled down, bass-heavy music pouring out. The short guy in the backseat catches Gerard's eye and belts out, "Can you pick up all the pieces of this broken generation?" at him.

The car speeds off before Gerard can process that properly, and he can feel his ears turn pink in embarrassment. Before he's even shut the trunk properly, the cab's driven away, but it's not his problem, so Gerard shrugs and turns away from the road to find his way to the dorms. He takes a moment to look around at all the buildings and people, and takes a step, nearly crashing into someone who pops up right in front of him.

Gerard screeches a bit in shock and jumps back a pace or two, clutching at his heart.

"Hi there," the person drawls lazily. "Welcome to University Suburbia. What dorm?" Their name tag reads, 'Hello, my name is Jon,' and his eyes are half-lidded. If Gerard concentrates, he thinks he can smell weed.

Gerard flails mentally, trying to remember what Brian's email said. "Uh…something to do with wolves?"

Jon nods slowly, smiling slightly and pointing in a general 'that way' direction. "House of Wolves, sure. What you're gonna do is take this map and find your own way, because there's a plate of brownies over there calling my name." And he waves a piece of paper in Gerard's face, waiting for him to take it before meandering off in the direction of the campus café. "Oh!" he turns back around and throws something bright red and plastic to Gerard, who goes for the catch but drops it. It turns out to be a small whistle.

He scoops up the whistle and Jon's disappeared by the time he's done that so he just turns it over and reads the cardboard label tied to it with twine. 'Official University Suburbia Rape Whistle' the card announces, and Gerard raises a worried eyebrow, flipping it over to read the back. 'Don't use it unless it's actually happening.'

"Wow," he says, tucking it into the pocket of his jeans and planning on never touching it again.

It takes Gerard longer to find the dorm than he thought it would, mainly because the map has little comments scrawled all over it, Mean Girls style, but he can't read any of them because they're written in pen and it's all smudgy. The only one that's even slightly legible is the one that says 'Jonny Walker's Weed Room' with an arrow pointing to the art department. 'That looks promising,' Gerard thinks sarcastically, the sketchbook and pencils suddenly feeling heavy in his bag.

Eventually though, he stumbles his way into the House of Wolves dorm, and he does not want to know the story behind the name, especially because the other dorms have names like Coffee's For Closers, and Hey Mr DJ. Naturally, because Gerard sucks at physical exercise, the elevator is broken and his room is on the third floor, right down the end of the hall, near the shower block. He's a little ashamed to admit that's he's almost out of breath by the time he gets to Room 121 and sticks the key in the lock.

Gerard allows himself a minute to rest his head on the door and breathe, and then he goes in. His roommate is already there, hulking quietly in the corner, reading something with 'Ben Elton' splashed on the cover. "Uh, hi," Gerard says nervously, inching into the room. "You must be Robert?"

"It's just Bob," the Viking-esque guy grunts, and Gerard squeaks out an apology, which causes him to smile slightly. "Relax, chipmunk. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Gulping, and still with his eyes probably comically wide, Gerard nods hesitantly. "O-okay."

To fill up the awkward silence as Bob goes back to his book, Gerard dumps his duffle on the bed and sits down at the desk, pulling his messenger bag up and tipping all his art supplies out. As he's sorting out his pens and pencils into little holding containers, there's a rhythmic knock on the door, and someone bellows, "Galactic police! We've come for the alien!"

Bob gives the door a very unimpressed look over the spine of his book, which he then transfers to the man who walks in. Gerard groans, covering his face with his hands. "Oh my god, Brian, what are you doing here?"

The man, Brian, shrugs his tiny, tattooed shoulder, adjusting his little 'Music Dept. TA' badge. "Seeing if you actually showed up," he says. "Gotta check up on ya; don't want Mikeyway on my back about not looking after you properly."

"Oh my god, don't bring my little brother into this," Gerard mutters.

Brian smirks and waves at Bob. "Morning, Bob!"

"Fuck off, Schechter," Bob replies, giving him a return wave with the tips of two fingers.

Brian turns back to Gerard. "How'd you get here? I thought I was gonna come and pick you up from the airport."

"No offence, dude, but your driving sucks ass," Gerard mutters, tucking his larger sketchbooks into a draw. "So I caught a cab."

"Fair enough," Brain says, nodding understandingly. "At least you're here. Have you been outside yet? It's warm, and there's actual light out there."

Gerard sighs, turning in his spinny-chair. "I don't want to go outside, Brian, I want to submit my folios to a company and start paying my dues."

"Here we go…" Brain rolls his eyes. "Gee, I'm only saying this because you're my cousin and I love you, but fucking…drawing Batman comics is not something you can do for the rest of your life, and-"

"That's not, ugh, that's not what I want to do, Brian!" Gerard whines. "I want to write my own comic books! Okay? Make my own art."

"Whatever you say, Gee," Brian says offhandedly. "But it took me a lot of string pulling to get you a place here, so you're going to get an education whether you like it or not."

"Yes, Mom," Gerard sulks. "You can go now."

"At least go and check out the Activities Fair. You never know, there might be something that catches your interest…"

Gerard sighs. "You're not going to leave me alone until I do, are you?"

Brian smiles. "Nope."

"You go, Gerard," Bob says monotonously. "Escape while you can; I'll keep him distracted." And then he reaches out and grabs Brain by the back of his shirt, setting his book down and shooing Gerard out of the room.

"Oh," Gerard is a little shocked. He wasn't sure if Bob was a friendly giant, or a rip-your-face-off giant, but now he knows. He sidles past the struggling Brian and slips out the door. "Bye, Brian!"

-

Frank gets unceremoniously thrown out of the car by Austin, who drives off with the back wheel dragging along the curb as he screams, "SEE YOU AT AUDITIONS, MOTHER FUCKER!" at him. Frank grins widely; he has the best friends ever. He slings his bag on his back, and pulls the crumpled map Austin had given him out of his pocket, squinting down at all the sharpied-in lines and comments Austin had also helpfully provided.

Frank knows that his room is in the Caraphernelia dorm, and he’s really keen to see if anyone can tell him the story behind the name, because it’s fucking cool. Tentatively following one of the smeared sharpie lines, he crosses the quad, taking a quick detour to purchase himself the first coffee with actual caffeine in it he’s had since his mom discovered it sent him hyper in his Freshman year of high school. Luckily, his room is on the ground floor of the dorm, so he won’t have to, like, quit smoking so he doesn’t die three days into living there from an asthma attack.

When he shoves the door open, he’s assaulted by movie memorabilia from one half of the room, and he’s glad he didn’t have any boxes, because he’d have dropped them in shock.

One of the Lord of the Rings posters moves, and then Frank realises that it’s just a boy wearing a shirt with Gollum’s face on it. “There he is!” his new roommate says with a dimpled smile. “You must be Frank?” he asks it a little hesitantly, only his dark eyes giving away that he’s slightly nervous.

“That’d be me,” Frank says, stepping into the room and closing the door. “This is fucking amazing…you have awesome taste in movies, man!"

The guy laughs, rubbing the back of his neck as his cheeks pink up slightly. "Thanks." He sticks his hand out, and Frank shakes it. "Hey, I'm Jaime Preciado." When he pulls back, he adds, "Oh, and just for the record, I'm not a total nerd." He wafts his hands around and there's suddenly the cutest little mouse being brandished in Frank's face. "I'm also super into magic tricks."

Frank's eyes go wide as he reaches up with grabby hands to take the mouse. "It's so cute!" he squeals, petting its head. He looks up at Jaime. "Dude, we're gonna be good friends, I can feel it."

Jaime's smile lights up his whole face. "Wow, really? Most people think I'm too weird!"

"Eh," Frank shrugs. "I have a moustache tattooed on my finger; I'm good with weird."

Jaime helps Frank unpack the little amount of stuff he brought with him, and then they decide to head out to the quad to check out the Activities Fair. The two of them, being noticeably shorter than most of the other students on campus, nearly get bowled over by a group of shirtless frat boys who roll by almost as soon as they step out of the building.

"Come on!" Frank says excitedly, grabbing onto Jaime's elbow and dragging him through the crowd of people. "There's only one group we're checking out!"

"There is?" Jaime asks, a little scared as Frank draws to a stop under a few trees, next to a wall where some very tall, tattooed people are lounging around with some acoustic guitars, and there's even one with a cajon drum. "Holy shit! Are those the Pick Flickers?!"

"Yep," Frank nods. "And we’re joining. I saw the bass in our room; you play."

Jaime blushes. "Yeah, but not very well."

Frank shrugs. "Can you sing?"

"Uh…" Jaime sort of taps his toe and starts humming before singing quietly, "But what if I was a secret, and you couldn't keep it?" He trails off, looking down at the ground. "Yeah…"

"Dude, that's awesome!" Frank exclaims. "Can you scream? That's what I do - my singing is a little rusty."

Jaime wrinkles his nose. "Sorta. I don't know."

"Great!" And then Frank grabs him by the arm again and pulls him over to the group, walking backwards to flash Jaime a reassuring smile.

Instantly, Frank gets attacked by one of the tallest members of the group, who sneaks up behind him and grabs him around the waist, hoisting him high off the ground with an exuberant shout of, "Hey guys! This is my midget neighbour I told you all about!" and carrying him off like some kind of prize.

Frank wriggles, banging his fist on the guy's back. "Austin, put me down, you giant fucker - I'm gonna get motion sickness up here and vomit all down your back."

"Ick," Austin says delicately, gently setting Frank back on his feet and dusting him off. "No vomiting, or I'm gonna send you over to hang with the Sellouts."

As the rest of the Pick Flickers venture over to investigate the protesting Frank, Jaime takes a step back and watches as Frank gets absorbed into the crowd. Jaime shuffles around a bit and pulls his yo-yo out of his pocket, doing a few small tricks as he waits for Frank to come back. He's not very good at interacting with large groups of people he doesn't know. A hand suddenly settles on his shoulder, and Jaime yelps in surprise, dropping his yo-yo halfway through lazily walking the dog.

"Hey, freshie," a voice croons, and - holy shit - Ashley Purdy is talking to him.

Jaime squeaks, cheeks pinking up. His junior music class in highschool went to the Battle of the Bands final two years ago, and Ashley's performance had inspired him to actually take his bass playing seriously. He might have just the tiniest hero-worship crush on the man. "Uh, hi…" he breathes, eyes wide.

Ashley smirks, clearly proud of the fact that he has such an awe-inspiring effect on people. "You interested in joining, my small, spiky friend?"

He kicks himself for it later, but Jaime is so star-struck by Ashley that he sort of…freaks out, and blurts, "No, I'm just waiting for my friend," before his brain has even okayed his mouth to say it.

Ashley's face goes blank, like he's wearing a mask of polite disinterest. "Oh, okay then." He pulls away, turning back to where the others are now taking turns ruffling Frank's hair and pinching his cheeks like he's their favourite nephew. "Hope to see you in the crowd then."

"Ah fuck," Jaime mutters, crouching down to scoop up his yo-yo. He's just blown his chance of ever being considered for the group.

-

Vic rolls his eyes as Kellin resolutely flips off the Pick Flickers from across the quad even though none of them are paying any attention to him. "I will stop at nothing to beat those dead-heads," he growls, finally lowering his hands and turning back to the front of their little 'Suburban Sellouts' stall they have set up for recruitment.

"Calm down, Kells," Vic says reassuringly, shuffling his pile of fliers for the ninth time. He spent hours in the media labs perfecting them; he wants to make sure they're all in the right order. There's a muffled laugh as Alan Ashby walks past them, and Vic turns his smile on him. "Hey, Alan! You gonna audition this year? There are openings."

Alan pauses briefly to give them an unimpressed look. "What, now that you've bled yourselves dry you'll actually consider me?" He sniggers at his own pun. "I auditioned for you three times and never got in because you said my hair clashed with your skin tones!" And he tugs subconsciously at the tips of his violently ginger hair before crossing his arms and smirking. "The word's out. The Sellouts are the laughing stock of BoB. Good luck auditioning this year…" Alan says ominously, turning on his heel and sauntering off.

Kellin buries his face in his arm and screams into his elbow to stifle the sound. "Oh my god, this is a nightmare!" he wails. "If we can't even get the Ginger Princess to audition, we can’t get anybody!"

"Calm down," Vic soothes him, bumping him with his hip.

Kellin does a 180 and perks up. "We'll be fine. We'll find at least five guys with nice faces who are willing to take their shirts off for audience brownie points." He nods firmly, smiling resolutely even as it wobbles slightly.

Vic leans his head on Kellin's shoulders, wrapping his arms around his waist. "Or we could just get good singers," he suggests softly, looking up at Kellin with a slightly mocking smile on his face.

"What, good singers?" an accented voice asks, and they both look to the front of the stall where a boy with screamingly pink hair is scrutinising their sign-up sheet, a pierced eyebrow raised.

"Hi," Vic says cheerfully, instantly slipping into what his brother jokingly calls his 'flight attendant mode'. "Can you sing?"

"Yeah," the boy says, shrugging.

Vic's smile widens. "Can you read music? Match pitch?"

The boy nods. "Yeah, try me."

Vic hums a note, and the boy copies, following him confidently through a quick scale. "Hey, you're good!"

"Thanks," the boy smiles. "I'm the best singer in rural Sydney." He deliberates, mouth turning down slightly as he thinks. "With teeth," he adds after a beat.

Vic giggles. "What's your name?"

"Michael Clifford. The Cliffoconda."

Kellin butts in. "You call yourself 'The Cliffoconda'?"

Michael laughs, shaking his head. "Nah, my mates back home nicknamed me that after I stopped dyeing my hair red and they couldn't call me 'Bluey' anymore."

Vic and Kellin share a confused look, laughing along awkwardly. Then Kellin nods a few more times than necessary, grabbing a flier off Vic and passing it to Michael. "I will…see you at auditions Michael."

"Whacko," Michael replies, saluting them as he skips off. On his way, he bumps into a black-haired boy making his way from the university journal sign-up stall, and he quickly apologises before continuing.

The other boy heads their way, and Vic elbows Kellin. "Hey, what about him? He looks a bit like that skinny kid. You know; the one with the glasses who hangs out with the techs at some of the venues."

Kellin wrinkles his nose. "I don't know. He looks a bit too…emo for us."

Vic very pointedly gives Kellin's tattoos, longhair, and faint eyeliner traces a once over before waving for the boy's attention. "Hi! Any interest in joining out Battle of the Bands group?"

He looks a little startled that they're actually talking to him, and walks over like a deer in the headlights. "Oh yeah, my brother says that this is, like, a thing now, right?"

"Yeah!" Vic exclaims. "There are four groups on campus. There's us; we only do vocals. Then there's…" he looks around and points to the small group of instrument toting people in a stall a few over. "Ah. The US Midtones. They're usually all-instruments, and they do a _lot_ of Green Day. There are the Highnotes." He points to a curly haired boy, sitting under a tree with two others lying in the grass at his feet. They've all got joints in their hands. Vic sighs. "They're not particularly motivated. Then there's-" he glances over at the Pick Flickers, but they're doing strange things to a Freshman, so he turns back to the boy, nodding along attentively. "Anyway. You interested?"

"Uh…" the boy screws his face up. "Sorry, but it's kinda lame…"

Kellin gasps like he's been personally offended. "Excuse me? Groups of passionate and musically talented individuals thrashing each other for domination is not lame."

"We sing all over the world for thousands of people," Vic adds, and the boy looks a little green. "What's your name?" he asks, just to keep him a little longer.

"Gerard," he says. "And you really like doing that?"

"We're a group of talented vocalists who's dream is to make the Battle of the Bands grand finals this year," Kellin says a little snappily.

Vic steps on his foot. "Help us make our dream into a reality?"

Gerard shrugs helplessly. "Sorry, but I don't even sing. And…Battle of the Bands really is kinda lame," and he kind of bobs his head and shuffles away.

Kellin, who always has to have the last word, shouts to him, "Well at least it's not a capella! That is fucking lame!" grabbing onto the edge of the stall and waving his fist like a crazy person.

"Chill," Vic groans, grabbing him by the back of the shirt and pulling him back. "What are we gonna do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so obviously, I had to change Fat Amy. Also, I'm taking creative licence and pretending Alan can sing.


End file.
